


What You Never Knew

by Applepie



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Angst, Different perspectives, Gen, Harsh life lesson, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-14
Updated: 2008-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Applepie/pseuds/Applepie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryou's get beaten up by Bakura. It happens all the time. But what really goes on inside Ryou's head when this happens? What about Bakura's?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Never Knew

**RYOU:**

Today is a day full of pain, ache and suffering, and tomorrow never comes.

Today, you beat me up again. You stand above me, snarling over the steadily dripping blood of your coated hands. "You're pathetic; you're better off dead," you hiss out. I stare at the blood -  _my blood -_  and don't answer. I never do. Because really, what do you want me to say?

Your voice alone is plenty enough.

You never stop talking, and heck, I think I've heard just about everything you'll ever say. It's  _always_  the same line. You threaten to kill me day after day, but it's nothing more than a broken record stuck on repeat by this point.

I can predict you words by now, you know?  _"You deserve to die," "I'll kill you," "I'll snap that pretty little neck of yours._ " I've heard it more than enough times for it to echo through my head. But as for death itself...

_You're such a little liar._

All bark and no bite, are you? You can beat and beat and beat me to a pulp, but yet you never follow through with you words.

"I can slice you up so easily, you'll be dead before the night is up,"you'll grin manically.

So I endure my wounds and hope for the best. But when the clock ticks past into yet another new day, I breathe in the new air and hate you all the more for the lie. Because today is a day full of pain, ache and suffering, and the death promised for tomorrow never comes.

I don't know if I should be happy or not about this fact.

You've made me hysterical you know? You've made me unable to separate my actions from the sane and the insane.

Sometimes I feel the need to laugh in your face bubbling out from inside of me like an overflowing pot. Sometimes I want to tell you of all your stupid little lies, and your stupid little boasting. Of how you're all talk and no action.  _Because really, what part of alive is 'dead'?_  And then I can see you now: you'd growl and sputter, and I would laugh at your face, all purple and bloated in disbelief and shock at my audacity.

And, and ... I  _could_  do it. Honestly, I really could.

But why don't I say it? Well, I don't really know. I mean, it would be so easy to do. I could just open my mouth, and the words would come tumbling out without restraint. I've almost slipped a few times; they've almost flowed out of my mouth, only for me to clamp my lips shut at the last moment, the unsaid words building up in me like a vicious torrent tearing at my insides.

It's so hard to remember sometimes, when my head is just spinning in circles from the pain. Those words you say ( _die... die... die...)_ amounts to absolutely _nothing_ \- who could blame me for wanting to laugh back?

And you, you just look at me like I was going to beg for mercy, when my mouth opens and closes wordlessly as I hold it all in.

 _Mercy?_  Honestly? You don't  _know anything_ , don't you?

I've long been over something as insignificant as that. It's been a long, long time since the idea of  _living_  has meant anything to me.

**...**

I give a wet cough. A splatter of blood hits the floor as I work through the liquid to breathe another breath of air.

You time it just right; winding up your arm to give a second punch just as I begin to inhale once more. I sputter as the air leaves my lungs, having stayed in me for no longer than a second, and definitely not long enough for the oxygen in my body to be replaced.

I'm left huffing and panting on the ground. You take that as an invitation to hit me some more. "Is that all you can take?" you scoff.

Another punch, another splatter of red.

I watch as my blood drip onto the ground, red and vibrantly staining what was once a white carpet. It's like me; ruin so badly that no amount of bleach would ever be able to completely bring it back to its former pure glory. _What is pure? I don't remember anymore..._

If I think back far enough, I can still vaguely recall a time I used to wish you were more like Yami. He was kind, intelligent, and would do anything for Yugi. But me, I was stuck with the Millennium Ring – I was stuck with you. You were selfish, you were maniacal, you were a violent villain. You were evil personified. I did my best to endure you, hoping deep in my heart it would end soon, hoping that one day you'd change. I was a fool.  _What is hope? I don't remember anymore…_

_I don't remember anything anymore._

"Crybaby," you sneer suddenly at me.

I startle at the words, uncertain to what you're referring to. And then I touch my face. Tears are involuntarily leaking out of my eyes. My whole face is warm, clammy, and wet with all sorts of liquids. Is it really my fault I never even realized?

"Weakling," you continue in that spiting tone.

But the tears just continue to fall, even as you eye me disgustedly. Your nose scrunches up like I'm worthless trash.

"It's barely a cut," you mock.

The need to laugh at you bubbles in my chest once more. Assumptions. Don't make assumptions. You think I'm crying because of the pain? Because I can't tolerate it? Because I'm so afraid you'll soon cross the line? Don't make assumptions.

_You don't know anything at all._

You're snarling inaudible words over me as you drag me by my hair with a blade held by my ear. You look so hatefully at my tears.

"I should just kill you; you're too pathetic to watch," you say, relying too much on your stupid assumptions, thinking those words would scare me even more.

There are still tears flowing down my cheeks, but you haven't made me more frantic with that line. I don't think you realise.

Why am I crying? Don't pretend you know.

Don't pretend you'll  _ever_ know. I cry because I'm in pain? Not voluntarily. I cry because I'm weak? That may be so. I cry because I'm afraid of death? HA, as if that'll ever happen.

Reality is far far from what you think.

Pain is just another unfortunate daily routine I have to bear, to endure. Nothing more, nothing less. Your punches, my pain; they're just another cog in life's melodramatic machine that must be present if I want the world to continue spinning on its axis. You are  _nothing_  to me.

Tears for pain signify that my nerves are still functional.

Death is something I've long stopped fearing. Death is something I've been promised again and again. Death is some far away dream that I'm longing greater and greater for as the days proceed. By now I just want to die.

Tears for death is nonexistent.

According for you, just by being myself there's more than enough reason to warrant my death. Yet, you refuse to kill me and get it over with already, and in fact come up with convoluted ideas that I'm actually afraid of it. So really, don't be so egocentric. You think you know everything, but that's one huge lie.  _Who's the pathetic one now?_

All this time, and you still haven't figured out why. I pity you. I really do.

Your blade hovers over me, glinting light over its sharp edge. It moves in. I hold my breath. My breath hitches as the cold metal touches my skin, and then the metal moves out once more. It draw nothing more than a thin slither of blood across my neck.

I give out a whine in response that sounds too much like a whimper to you. You, of course, take it the wrong way.  _Again._

"Scared?" you hiss out, auburn eyes flaring up in annoyance.

Of you? No. And of death? Not any more – in fact, I'm yearning for it nowadays, but you'll never guess that.

Like everything else, I  _used_  to care about living - that's all we have to look for in this slow-burning, routine world, after all. But, there's nothing left for me... no hope, no family ... _except for you._

You. Really, who'd want  _you_?

Death is much more preferable.

**...**

Here I am, lying on the cold, hard, unforgiving ground. My lungs are gasping for air. My face is throbbing from pain. Blood blurs my vision and my sense of smell. My head spins as the world threatens to topple over me.

I know you like watching me squirm, but really, hasn't this gone on for long enough?

I WANT you to kill me. Is it really that hard for  _you_?  _You of all people?_

Life is overrated, to say the that I think about it, I don't think there has  _ever_  been any reason to live. And … well, perhaps you were right all along.

Life is the hardest game you'll ever play. Rules are fleeting, if ever constant. Death is the easy way out. Take it every chance you ever get. That there's my life's lesson in a nutshell. That's ALL  _you've_  ever taught me.

So maybe I had the better Yami all along. You'd feed me reality - untainted reality, hidden deep in this rosy tinted world of lies. Everyone else is oblivious, but I know. _Oh, I know._

_And I hate it._

I hate this world. I hate its lies, its fake happy smiles, its crumbling society swept under the carpet like it was actually possible to hide it.

Life? What life? How is  _this_  life?

I'm better off dead.

And yet, here, I'm still only inwardly pleading for you to fulfill your threats and warnings of killing me, never speaking a word out loud. I still let you believe your pathetic misunderstandings without correcting you even once.

It a bit counterintuitive, yes, I agree. But I don't say anything, because honestly, it's my little act of vengeance against you. Because here, even in the pain I can laugh at you stupidity, and at how badly mistaken you are. You don't know everything, Bakura. You don't know how stupid you look, Bakura.

When I still can, I want to inwardly laugh and laugh and laugh at you. One of these days, you'll eventually take responsibility. So, before tomorrow finally comes for me, I will make the most of my 'life', and if that happens to be belittling you, then all the better.

* * *

**BAKURA:**  

 

_Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

I feel your head on my hand, as I push it on the ground. Your laboured breaths fill up the silence. Your long, snow-white hair tickles my palm as the wind blow through it. I hate that feeling. I cut it short with a jerk of my knife.

Your tears run down your face, streaking lines as they race off - meeting a bitter end on the harsh carpet floor, greedily soaking up each drop. Tears or blood; it really makes no difference. It soaks it all up eagerly so.

"You're pathetic; a crybaby. You'll get no where in life."

You clench your teeth and close your eyes as I wind up for another blow in the face. I stop. You look up expectantly, and I execute it right in the eye.

You flinch back, clutching it in pain. Tears threatening to fall again.

"You're pathertic; you deserve to die."

 

_Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

I give a ferocious kick in the stomach as you just stare pointlessly at my face.  _What are you hoping for? Salvation?_

You sputter. You cough up blood. It splatters red all over my shoes, and you cringe knowingly at it. Oh, yes; you see what you did. You know what I'm going to do. You roll up protectively as I threaten you with my flip-knife.

I pull you up by your hair. That beautiful white hair of yours, coated in a layer of dust and dry, crusty blood. Your tears flow like a river now, and your whimpering starts up again.

I hold up the knife by the jugular of your neck. "So easy now." I whisper into your ear. You shiver at my voice. "So easy to kill."

Years earlier this quavering mass would have been nothing by now. You would've been a mere puddle on the floor. A pathetic excuse for an ex-host of mine.

Here, now, you still have the energy to whimper like a half-dead puppy. Big improvement.

I throw you to the side, pocketing the knife. "Still pathetic," I mutter at your flying back.

 

  _Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

I crouch down by your face, and you look up instinctively. Drooping, expecting chocolate brown eyes meet auburn. You wince as you stare into my half-crazed eyes. Your mouth opens an inch, as if wanting to comment, but closes in a snap. _Stop hoping._

I grab your shirt by the collar and hold you up in the dark lit room. The quick altitude change leaves you glossy-eyes and dazed. The running blood from your scrapped head doesn't help, no doubt.

"You have something to say?"

You tremble in my hands. Eyes watering up  _yet again_. You never stop, do you? Such a crybaby. I strode in the kitchen. You look at the drawers - knife drawer in particular - and I let your own fears play out in your mind.

With a quick push with my hand, your head disappears in the sink. I let the tap run by your ears, but you neither flinch nor move at the sound. Your breathing, however, tells it all. The sink fills. I push your head in. You suffer in silence, bubbles rising to the surface.

You flail your arms as you run out of air. I keep you under. Spasms of your chest tell me you're drank up water, and I let you up at last.

A flicker of gratitude fills your face before it disappears completely. You cough - coughing turns to hacking. You drop to the floor when I let go of your arm.

 

  _Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

Life is not all fun and games. Life is never fair. Life should not be taken lightly.

I grab you by the arm, and flip you over. Your back on the floor. My foot on your stomach. I press down, water and saliva still spewing down the corners of your mouth. You grab at your throat, but I know you won't choke.

I stare you in the eyes. Your glistening brown eyes, no longer bright, but covered in a layer of darkness and death. You blink furiously to focus, and I just push my foot harder in response.

You're getting there. These eyes of yours are finally fitting for this vicious world.

You think an innocent boy would last a chance in this kind of place? The world is harsh and not for the weak. The weak minded; the weak strength. They will never survive.

You may scream all you want. You may swear all you want. You may hope all you want. You may cry all you want, but I'll never stop hurting you.

 

  _Just who do you think I'm doing this for?_

You're just a pathetic child, kept in a blanket of comfort for much too long. The world will eat you alive out there. You'll never know what hit you.

I'm just preparing you for that onslaught.

Who's to say  _I'm_ really the bad guy here? Who's to say those schoolmates of yours are right? They can do however they please. They can die whenever they please. They don't concern me one bit.

You, my bodily reincarnation, on the other hand…

I give you a kick on the side, watching as you turn around, gasping for breath. You heave on the floor. I crinkle my nose in disgust at the sight.

You breath stays laboured. Your limbs wobble and give out without a notice. You clutch your stomach in pain, slowly drifting off. I push you out of my way with the back of my foot, watching as darkness claims you.

"There's still more you have to work at," I mutter to no one in particular.

_Really, just who do you think I'm doing this for? It's for Ryou's sake, of course. Preparation for the cruel life onwards._

**Author's Note:**

> So Ryou's slowly dying inside, and Bakura thinks he's actually helping the poor boy. That's life. No one said it was fair. No one said it wasn't filled with misunderstandings. No one said you'll survive it with your sanity intact.


End file.
